Rules of the Game
by Kuro49
Summary: Watson/Holmes. SH2. Holmes looks up from the papers just as Watson repeats himself: "Teach me how to dance."


Written at 5:30 in the morning for my darling sister who gave me the prompt of Holmes teaching Watson how to waltz. Obviously based on SH2 and all the gay that even I couldn't recreate ;) Warning: I have never read a SH2 fanfic (yet but that is due for change) so all the excuses for awkward construction of characters? D:

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**Rules of the Game**

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From the corner of his eye, Sherlock Holmes catches the first sign.

With his back turned towards him, Watson's hand is steady but there is a long pause from the sound of the scratching of one word to the daunting start of the next one.

Sherlock blows a stream of smoke with a parting of his lips and he leans further back into his chair as he flips his newspaper to the next page, eyes scanning wildly for everything that is not on the page. The second sign comes.

Watson stops entirely, the next word doesn't get written on the parcel of paper lying at the centre of his desk and then he even puts down his pen.

Sherlock is intrigued to say the very least.

"Holmes."

The doctor starts and the other acknowledges the call of his name with a distracted noise he makes with his throat. Eyes running across the same sentence of the same article as he waits behind a paper-thin shield of anticipation. He sucks in another breath of tobacco from his pipe and nearly forgets to breathe out with Watson's next words.

"Teach me how to dance."

Holmes looks up from the papers, a swirl of startled amusement and confusion flitting across his eyes before he lowers the newspaper from obscuring his face. The other pushes back in his seat and stands up to his full height to look at him from across the room.

And then Watson repeats himself: "Teach me how to dance, Holmes."

Sherlock can't help but grin, lips curling as he shakes his head.

"Why do you think I would even know how to dance myself?"

"Are you implying that the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to dance?" Watson walks over, side stepping the clutters of the room like it is arranged to his liking and Holmes wants to scream traitors at the books and papers he has tossed to the ground. The soles of the doctor's shoes click against the worn wooden floors.

Holmes sets down the newspaper into his lap and looks up at Watson from his seat. He will not play to his taunt because this man is his to play with.

"There is no music."

Instead of stepping down, Watson quirks his head to the record player in the corner of the room, it is covered with dust and grim from days of neglect and misuse. Sherlock huffs out a quiet breath.

"I don't have my dancing shoes."

Watson stares at him, Holmes takes it as a challenge to a game where only he knows the rules.

000

The room fills with music, cracking and stuttering at the most unfortunate of times. But Sherlock likes his chances.

"I'll lead then."

Holmes holds out his hand with an exaggerated swoop and only looks up to catch Watson staring down at him when time stretches out and no one is there to take his offered hand.

"Mary—"

"Fine, Watson. I'll teach you how to lead then." He stands up straight with a hand held high to keep the other from explaining himself. It is honestly too clear at this point. Mary, girlfriend, lover, prospect fiancé.

"Take my left hand with your right hand." Watson wraps his fingers around Holmes' in a light and ginger grasp. Holmes frowns. "A little harder, she won't break… Formal dinner party?"

"Something of the sort." Watson nods and there is a certain stiffness in his movements as he tightens his hold on Sherlock's hand.

"Now put your left hand on my waist." Holmes sees the hesitation in the way Watson slowly wraps his arm around to rest his hand at the dip of his spine. "Slightly around the back. A little lower… good."

Watson nods.

"Mary will put her hand on your shoulder, like this." Sherlock places his hand on the place Watson's neck stretches out into his shoulders and pauses to adjust to the height. "And you will begin with your left foot forward."

He waits as the other takes a step and he takes one backwards.

"And I'll mirror your movement."

Watson's eyes are tracing their steps and they move to the sound of Holmes' voice.

"Take another step forward and with your right foot, step to the right."

They move together in an awkward drag and pull of the limbs.

"Slide your left to your right and you are on the fifth beat."

It isn't smooth and their shoulders bump, Watson doesn't pull away and Holmes doesn't push the tiny pressure of contact to spread. But the temptation is certainly there.

"Step back, left foot to the left and slide your right up to it."

There is none of the familiar elegance that Sherlock knows by heart but this stumble of a dance with music crackling in the background is something he likes—only Watson chooses this exact moment to step on his foot.

It doesn't hurt but it is enough to make him frown.

"Right up to the end where you stomped on my foot was the waltz." Glaring, he continues with a defiant tone twisting in his words. "It should be sufficient for any occasions, if not just leave, the party isn't for someone like you."

"Someone like me, Holmes?" Watson raises a brow and when Holmes begins to let go and pull his hand from his shoulder, Watson grips his hand and pulls him closer instead. "What are you trying to imply?"

Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction and Watson catches the difference. He tries not to smile and thankfully Holmes shoves him back a distance before his words comes slashing across the air between them.

"Stop analyzing every word I say and look at your feet. Or rather mine's since you are doing it completely wrong."

He ducks his head back down at their feet even though he knows just what they are doing. Watson doesn't comment, he only follows Holmes' gaze with a soft hum of the music, tapping a beat against Sherlock's back as they stare expectedly at their feet moving just a few notes slower than the triple beat of the waltz.

They practice with a silent mantra of one, two, three echoing on the tip of Sherlock's tongue.

And the points of contacts, his right hand in his left hand, his hand splaying against small of his back, his fingers gripping at the curve of his shoulders, all blur into one as they listen to the music a little closer. (Or as they lean in a little bit more.)

"The room is warm."

They bend the rules of the game to their own benefits. Holmes doesn't like to lose and Watson doesn't mind letting him win. It isn't like there is money involved.

"Why, Holmes, it does seem warmer than usual."

Their lips turn upwards and Sherlock steps on his foot.

XXX Kuro

Also, did I mention I don't actually know how to dance? D:


End file.
